Life while at Semester at Sea

It’s now been 19 days since I joined Semester at Sea, arriving in Salvador after 21 hours of travel to board the ship and find my room, 8029.  I love my room, with its rose-colored floral carpeting, twin beds with their own brilliant white duvets, large windows looking to the sea – that open onto the vast Atlantic Ocean.  I am finally crossing the ocean, something I have wanted to do ever since my mother recounted the story of her friend who used to regularly cross the ocean on cargo ships.  

There are two parts to this voyage:  on land and at sea.  Upon arrival in Salvador, Bahia in Brazil, I joined a small community of people that had not departed on overnight excursions.  I found my room and then promptly went out into the port where I stumbled upon a bi-lingual tour guide with whom I did two full days of excursions.  This was an excellent find because otherwise I was mostly on my own, in a strange city, in a country where I do not speak the language and where we were frequently warned about abundant dangers.  It was actually quite lonely, but to catch you up, I enjoyed connecting with the capoeira culture here, including meeting a 90 year old mestre and watching him teach class on evening, admiring statues of very famous mestres in the main square by the port, and watching local capoeristas dance, even dancing with them.  

Ship life is a completely different thing. Everyone is on board and has chosen their people with whom they will generally share their meals and will plan activities in the next port.   I would never advise a solo traveler to join mid-voyage like I did, but here I am.   The components of ship life are….eating, going to classes and participating in a myriad of activities in the evening, including special presentations, movies, talent night, happy hours, etc.  I am taking Global Environmental Politics, Books without Borders, Global Cinema and Global Core, the last being highly disliked by almost everyone.  I wanted to start reading more intensively in life so the Books without Borders is great..although I admit to punting today’s class as I am kind of overscheduled today.  Global Film is great.  The students in the classes are generally engaged and have many interesting things to say, which is cool.  I guess I’d call myself a Floater, since few of my appeals to be included with other groups have succeeded, I have taken it upon myself to invite someone new to join me at lunch and at dinner for a 1:1 conversation.  I have had breakfast twice with a group that I like and I was so touched that one of them said they missed me this morning.  That was the first time that someone expressed that sort of sentiment. 

My favorite person on board is Samantha, a solo nomad traveler who has truly inspired and encouraged me to just do what interests me on my own, which is pretty much what I’ll be doing in Cape Town.  At times I feel brave and strong, other times I feel discouraged and lonely, but that is life and there are lessons to be learned, forced reflections and stepping out of my comfort zone.  I miss home but have no regrets.  

Dancing on one foot

 he’s lithe and alive, slender and spinning

young and supple, a smile that stuns a world

that finds itself applauding while still unsure of 

such insistent gaiety, enduring truth telling

he will be heard, he will be seen

the lame foot that finds a way to dance even as

tears may stream behind closed doors yet he 

steps out in the sunshine on deck 10 the wind 

whipping against his baggy trousers, the thin fabric

of his T-shirt billowing like a sail to dance

as if his life depended on it

we watch from below our silence

Only broken by his exuberant cries of 

delight – freedom!

Looking through the slats at South Africa

 

her story was South Africa, her movements unsteady

through the slats, I see the horizon rising and falling

the roll and pitch of the ship propelling us 

towards that land of Apartheid, an impossible past

where black or colored could only watch/live/endure the world

through slats of imprisonment only their horizon never shifted

not a voyage of discovery and privilege

from her a story of maps of the land extraction tourism crops

to us, the listeners, our stomachs churning in the roll and pitch

of exposure we could not want to know would not want to believe

the pitch and roll, the splash of the waves against the hull,

the propellor, the endless whir of history that still churns their lives 

butter cut by metal blades only to be spread as the other permits

to her, home, this magnificent place is complicated

I only see the horizon pitch and roll through the slats 

my stomach rises to my throat

Global Core: a Class

he said to write without thinking but 

it was so cold in the soft red plush chair in the Union, 

what Union, I asked Gabi one of the

two blonde girls, and the one in front with three sets of gold earrings reflecting squinting light into my half-closed eyes

the 3 am awakening from sleep disrupted by the sun which promised to erupt soon from the open sea, that same sea which has been calling to me all these years into this particular abyss 

one can be solitary but not alone, surrounded by others

and deeply lonely

she cried every day, but the other man, Floyd

rolled his head back with laughter at the idea, 

his eyes half closed not from fatigue but amusement

done following instructions my pencil follows the line

of her neck, the shape of her earrings 

I turn towards her 

she is waiting to speak 

 

Searching amongst the dead

 she was looking for her sunglasses 

my eyes blinded by solid gold, the dead man

on the cross, the little white man holding a small black baby, what was that in this land

the Senegalese man told me that Brazil is the most racist country in the world and it wasn’t long ago

he only left in 2024 

so many white men, they call them Popes, lining the hallway, and more downstairs in the crypt, the sharp bitterness of death lingered in the air

i tasted it on my tongue wondering at its enduring odor, the power of the papacy

she was sitting dejectedly in the pews without her sunglasses, only the reflection of gold in her eyes, the sorrow of it all

 

Making my own plans

Of course this would happen that I would find myself on my own 

the new arrival, the stranger

the others having formed their groups, made their plans

in spite of their insistence

shrill at times that everyone is so friendly

it is easy for them to say a welcoming word yet turn away 

the stranger can be invited by someone else

their friends secure in their pockets

I am the invisible guest, so I 

find a tour guide on the street, unlock a bike

and just go, tears streaming from my eyes

I say they are from the wind 

 

Meeting Mestre Curió in Salvador, Bahia

that sunny, hot afternoon

we timidly walked into the capoeira studio, towards the back, into the darkness

where a small man was seated at a table, his arms resting on his canes, 

a serious, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming presence, this was the Mestre

we were seeking, Mestre Curió, the man who was the Master, shrunken 

but commanding in presence, a smile only arriving after a 

T-shirt purchase, excited exchange about capoeira.

And later that night, when we returned, (yes, it was the same Bahian man, Clodes, with the 

big smile who collected me once again at the terminal) he motioned us 

to sit, sit over there, sit and watch him, now the commander of the stage,

in a well lit studio, barking orders at his students, some graceful and skilled, others 

stumbling as beginners do, but as we rose to depart, weaving between his students, 

he looked at us with disappointment that we would dare to leave before he showed us

how this was done, that the other mestre in the adjacent room did not

know how to do it the right way, and how could we leave and I hesitated

eventually slinking into the night 

his look turned to disdain, then dismissal.

one does not walk away from a Mestre. 

Open the gate and walk through: meeting the Orixás

I met him on the sidewalk when he opened the gate for me

the gate that lead us to a conversation, a plan, the day to meet the

Orixás floating peacefully on the lagoon

one dressed in lilic, another in gold, yet another white for peace,

one I had met before, Ogun, from Captains of the Sands, the book

Clodes had also read, the man with the Bahian smile 

who studies history for fun and opens our sleepy eyes to 

the spirits in this land, who live amongst us, amongst the 

traffic, and the drugs, the enchantment and the open seas, no

matter your religion, let us forget the Enneagram, the 

Meyers Briggs test, I'll look for the Orixás that has been 

guiding me, open my sleepy eyes to the power within, the 

enchantment and power, and find my own guiding colors,

what I am reaching for with my hands outstretched.  

 

I'm committed

 

The red duffle is packed, a color copy of my Brazil visa in hand

my husband embraces me three times, promising that I will have a wonderful time

I admit to tearing up inside wondering if this is what I want to be doing

and I walk away, into the gaping terminal, asking directions to the Delta counter

because it has moved, so much construction, chaos, and then navigating 

so many small problems that usually Stephen attends to, no TSA Pre on my ticket,

long lines, and then I read a poem about facing uncertainty, recognizing 

the restless at home (yes, while loving it), knowing it normal to be fearful 

but seeing that I am at that door to new discovery and it's important to walk

through that gaping terminal door, and face all the things I am afraid of.

I will gain courage in this, as I write this waiting at JFK for the 9.5 hour 

flight to São Paulo and I hear the others speaking Portuguese and I know 

that this is the right thing to do.

Here I go.  

Reality of No Dog sets in - the unlicked bowl

we asked ourselves if the new dishwasher will really be able to handle this

new reality, our new reality, the one where there is no dog running to lick the

bowls as soon as they hear the clink of the spoon against the bowl.

we wonder if we can handle this new reality where there is no warm 

fuzzy body cuddling up next to us as we watch the second episode in

yet another series that could educate us, instead of entertain, there is no 

warm breath on our pant leg, no more dog hair on my sweater, no sweet

greeting when I open the door after being away.  

the dishwasher is unprepared for this, as are we, our tears barely

drying before they fall again to the ground. 

 

From one suitcase to another

I did wear the flowered dress at the High School Reunion,   

the raincoat, the pants, the shorts, the extra underwear never unpacked

the socks, the flute wrapped in the waterproof bag all still resting in 

the suitcase, the one given to me by someone who had no right, now what is

ready to jump into the gaping red duffle, its mouth spread open like

a whale ready to voyage across the sea, as that is what I will be doing.

but what shall I bring on this voyage of unknowns, the days pass

and my uncertainty must come to an end.

I am leaving, in two days, I am leaving. 

The 50th

Nancy and Paul, and Carly and Steve;

Andy and me, at the 50th, 50 years since we have seen each

others' faces, dear Nancy who hurtled south instead of north

only to arrive at Ogilvie Transportation Center so warm and lovely

I still see her youth in her smiling face, and Paul, the boy so many girls

swooned over now working the crowd like a seasoned politician

who never was, but could be

big Andy towering over me, the biggest bear hug

a conversation about important things that no one talks about

but needs to anyway, and dear Carlyn who leads us 

fearlessly into places where we have nor tickets nor experience,

we follow her with trust and confidence, and how could I forget

Steve, the inimitable Steve, opposite of his brother, the one who

held my hand way back, Steve, who makes me laugh in this

dive into old memories not always welcome from 50 years ago.

A grand time at the 50th perhaps, our faces will fade into the

mists of memory and there will be no reprinting.  

 

one can find new friends anywhere anytime

 

he invited me to sit next to him

he said that the empty seat on the CTA train was waiting for me to arrive

so we talked of such things, of Mount Trashmore where I recalled the 

rope tow that burned my small hands, the cold and snow on the hill made

of trash, the man sitting behind us was also amazed that such a 

thing had existed, finally shut down due to liability concerns

we can't have fun anymore - is that it

and we looked for the Forest Preserve, and on the bus,

yes, he took me to where I needed to get the bus to Kenmore 

and there, crammed into the crowded seats, we talked about James Webb

we talked of such things, crazy things, like the coefficient of thermal expansion

of the struts, and when his hand grasped mine in farewell, I did not

know if we would see each other again, but there is no doubt that

one can find new friends anywhere and anytime, on a bus,

on a train, in a car, on a plane, anywhere.  

The submission that wasn't

Yes, I worked on that one poem, ABCs, so many revisions, 

visits with the poetry coach, obsession, suffering

so much that, in the end, I killed it, the spirit gone in 

the rereading, I couldn't stand the poem anymore

I threw it in the waste bin of the mind and selected 

the other one, the one written on the 6th floor of the hotel

the one that wrote itself with pen and paper, delivered

itself to the clerk and I walked out on it, left it to 

drift, unmolested, untouched, no revisions, no edits

I submitted it to the contest, the one and only one that 

I had committed to, the last one, my poems are not meant

to be caged with the editor, we need to be free. 

 

Good-bye and farewell to the best dog ever, Bella

 

So many tears, sobbing, I'll admit, for her, for

Bella, our Bella  who was no ordinary dog, she's the 

One who captured the heart of a little girl named Mira, the

One who said that Bella was the only dog she ever loved,

Bella was that dog, the one who loved every visitor,

who loved to go to camp when parents were away, she was the

One that called up the word Sweet on everyone's tongue,

Sweet Bella, who rolled delightedly in grass, her long thin

legs batting the air with abandon, the dog who pounced like

a fox at the edge of the trail, retrieving unsuspecting mice.

and eating them in front of myriad hikers passing by.

She woke us in the morning with the clicking of her nails

on these old wooden floors that have seen it all these last 140 years.  

Oh, Bella!  I miss you more than I could ever have known

Yes, the one who wasn't the dog lover in the family, but who loved

you more deeply than I could have realized until it was 

time to let you go, to release you from suffering.

Bella, I will hold you in my heart forever. 

Nothing to See Here

I had to get this book out of my house,

yes, the best seller, NYT amazing book, they told me so.

yes, the book that was on the Staff Picks at NoBo library

that I grabbed because it was about children that spontaneously combust

and although the ones in Baltimore did not literally start on fire, smothering

them to stop the screaming did occasionally occur to me, but please never tell them.

the library was closed but the door to automatic conveyer belt obediently opened

soothing my beating heart and the book slide silently out of sight and mind

I have too much on my mind as it is

 

Where the wealthy live

 

there is no connection here

just to the left are the big houses, mansions really, part of a big city

Baltimore

I was talking to a friend when he said he couldn't hear me anymore, here in

Baltimore

where just to the left, at that moment, was a three story yellow duplex

but there was no sound and I saw on my phone that he had disappeared 

we did not hear each other anymore, here in

Baltimore

this grand city with sky scrapers and busy streets, the hustle of people going 

about their business, some panhandling, others striding purposefully, here in 

Baltimore

a few miles away there is no connection, the line goes dead, even the 

path is quiet, my footsteps swallowed in the deep mulch along the path, here in 

Baltimore.  

 

The Gardener

he was building the garden when i last visited

piles of lumber,  the garden beds outlined in chalk and 

taut lines of string, the cement mixer off to the side for

the required garden shed

he needs it all to be properly set out 

properly done, only then will the seeds know that

it is time, the seriousness of it all, the expectations of

success, this is how it is done

and so

and so, a couple years later, or was it 18 months or

something like that i came back to this place, to his 

garden, not hers, no, his garden, his masterpiece, and the

seeds knew to germinate, and the plants to push up through

well composted soils, towards the sun, protected from

all manners of hopping and jumping beasts, from the aerial

assaults of small insects, the slimy advances of the other

living creatures who seek to feast at a table of such

bounty, just as i arrived as well to gobble down sweet

cherry tomatoes, the last of the season after such a summer

of heat and blazing sun.

what a lovely moment to snap a photo of him

smiling in front of towering pepper plants loaded

with the fruits of gardening, always a

labor of love. 

 

The artist

 

although I wasn't sure about how a woman's stomach could hold a cello

it was clear that this man knew how to do it, knew her soul better than she did

her need to be a cello but also be a mother, daughter and friend

and I wondered how they have met

this cello woman, his muse and maybe they met in a bar a few decades ago

a whiskey in his left hand, his right turning a pencil around in his fingers

pondering what was next in this life that is always

a mystery, isn't it, where women may want to be cellos and men

whales that swallow fishes while seeking truths somewhere else than

this crazy world where a yellow fish may appear blue to the 

untrained eye.  

Ibou, Momar, Oumar - and me

i had not known them. the three in the gallery sitting next to me that afternoon

one of them had turned to me in the darkness of the theatre, Ibou, yes,

after the film, the film about

three innocent black men imprisoned for 30 years

two of these freed men now having just stood on the stage, how generous

of him, Ibou, to greet me after watching that 

onslaught of injustice by 

the white man, yes, the white man.

and then Momar 

leaning against the candy counter in the theatre lobby, waiting to go and

i hadn't wanted to walk in the sun through the heat 

because I didn't know, I actually didn't know 

that i could be so stunned by beauty, what Ibou and Momar brought

to show me from across the sea, across the country

the paintings of birds and women, the vibrancy of life jumping from 

the canvases, stunning the eye, the heart of

West Africa

and then Oumar

I didn't know, I actually didn't know that

thousands, millions across the sea danced and sang Jappo 

Namenala yes, I miss you, too, yet you are here, too

for the man shouting out from his car window, jubilant in recognition 

as we crossed the intersection in the suffocating heat

this is celebrity, the joy of recognition

here in Aurora, in this place, 

I had not known them and they are so quickly gone

but they are still here

I feel their hearts beating

 

The exquisite blood draw

 

i recognized him

yes, this man that came from other shores, i recognized

the boots and his light colored eyes that danced, and 

i was glad.

because i already knew him

this man that would not miss a the vein, not like the 

one who claimed that my body did not give blood, 

no reason to worry, i knew that this man

was the one who would smile and move so gracefully

that my eyes would not even follow his every move

only the "a tiny prick" alerted me that the 

draw had begun, over before i could 

brace myself for the pain, no time for anxiety

or fear, Moe is his name, no, Mohammed,

the real name, the name of prophets and 

wise men.  

he is one of them. 

The advantages of being (in a) single, with a guide and a pull rope

yeah, husbands can be nice but they tend to take control of the boat

you know, even the nicest ones, it's just part of, well, being a guy in this world

even with a wife, yes, he had the audacity to call me "the wife" which is said with 

....such disdain by guys, as if we are subhuman or something, or certainly not capable

of making our own decisions, even for such small matters as to what kayaks to rent

yeah, and i'd like a guide, too, for when the clouds scud across the sky and the wind picks up

and there is so much water and sky and we are far from port and this is no fun anymore.

yes, i'd like a single kayak and a guide, and the husband can come along if

he would like, grumbling a bit, i see him smiling as we cross the water, the wide

water that in places is like a mirror, the sky is literally water and sky 

and water and sky before a small ripple breaks a cloud into haze and the wind

picks up and it's a long way back to the small rocky beach where we launched which

is now covered in small wavelets as the tide has risen and the current is strong

so yes, I'd like to be towed back to shore across the strait and watch with 

some (small) amusement that my darling husband, the husband, is working so hard to

keep up with his petite wife, watching the pull cord, taut then slack, dipping, then 

rising towards the small pebbled shore.

 

As if I knew this pond

I knew this pond, the dense forest bordering

its edges, the distant cries and yelps of children

splashing into the water, shocked by the sudden cold on their skin

I knew

this pond, the dappled sparks of sunlight reaching

deep into my retina, the cries of the children echoing

resonating in my ear canals, gradually diminishing

as if I knew

this pond, but it wasn't, was it, it wasn't the one

where I arrived at dusk, barefoot, my hand in his,

the moon was bright that night, and the water lapped

at the shore, that pond

was here, the forest was the same, the cries of 

the children had simply been there earlier that morning

while I was still up changing bedsheets in their rooms

the ponds are all the same aren't they

the sunlight glimmering on the water, each ripple catching

a different beam, each beam bouncing back into the 

memories of a 

différent pond, but aren't they all the same

 

The injustice of being sick on vacation

the injustice

how dare I call it that, the injustice of being sick on vacation

when true injustice surrounds us, we have only to open the New York Times

to see injustice oozing from the mouths of our Supreme Court injustices

the injustice for the toddler shot at a Seattle fair just yesterday

oh, injustice you are everywhere and yet looking past the Kleenex box

towards the tranquil bay, does the seagull know injustice or

does the rain gently pattering outside on the railing

know injustice or does she wander freely with the clouds first

towards the east, over the hillsides and open water

does injustice only reside with us, who have strayed so far from

the natural world that we cannot even know what justice is,

or injustice

the injustice of being sick on vacation, the endless coughing and sneezing

the nose rubbed raw, would nature call these injustices or only the 

weary and spoiled traveler in her warm clothing, her white skin and well-educated

mind

she dare not call this an injustice.  

 

This is British Columbia

this is what i imagined 

a white yacht bobbing through channels

endless water, rain pattering 

bleached logs 

stacked onto rocky shores

peaceful

far from it all, what happened in Seattle

would not happen here

this is why we are here

 

the Dalaï Lama in Victoria

His gaze upon us at the restaurant calmed my sense

of not being fully here yet, in Victoria, the place not having 

captured me as I had expected,

jarred by the fencing on Paragon Street seeming to cage

in the homeless and their scattered trash and belongings

just blocks away from the Empress Hotel where one spends

one hundred dollars for high tea

isn't this the way it is in big cities, all of them

the Dalaï Lama gazes down upon all of us who land

somehow in this restaurant with an empty table

after having searched in vain for hours

he somehow knows that I needed this calming here

surrounded as he is by prayer flags and colorful wall

coverings, the serene voice of the Tibetan waitress

I can almost feel the cool breeze blowing off the Himalayas, I

can almost touch his cheek with my

fingertip

 

"When there is no Internet at the hotel" - the Reading

I just walked right up to the clerk

aware of his look of guarded concern, no doubt fearing

a complaint but wasn't it too early to complain about anything

this glorious morning

in Seattle, Washington, the sort of morning where 

happenstance results in a handwritten poem waiting to be released

like a bird from an outstretched hand

yes, it was the internet that didn't work, a might have been complaint that

turned into a golden gift of freedom from the screen

the feel of the pen held between the fingers, the noticeable

drag across the hotel pad found under the TV

I just walked up to the clerk, his gaze transforming to fascination

as I presented the poem that needed to be spoken aloud

to him, the clerk, that early morning when only one 

other woman was gazing intently at us as I read

this one that needed air to breathe

to remind us all that we are free, after all

we have only to remember

(The poem that I wrote is on a previous blog post https://le-poeme.blogspot.com/2026/07/when-there-is-no-internet.html)

 

Trois baguettes, trois amis

pourquoi pas

cuisiner trois baguettes cet après-midi, 

meme s'il

fait une chaleur à crever,

que le four, 500F pour 15 minutes

serait trop trop trop pour 

cette petite cuisine

parce que j'attends trois amis

ce soir, trois baguettes pour

trois amis, ils en auront tous

besoin d'une.

 

When there is no internet at the hotel

 

When there is no internet 

my iPad is simply a lamp

the screen shedding light onto

the reality of our dependence

the unopened books, the 

mind spinning free unshackled

from pre-digested content

when there is no internet, I 

notice the pen and paper  beneath 

the TV screen and consider what it 

might feel like to write,

not type, or even whether the 

magazine in my bag, the one

about how no one reads anymore,

might be read this morning

or maybe I will look out the window

of this sixth floor and watch the City awaken

yes, I'll do exactly that, unplugged

the world beyond the screen is 

waiting for me to notice.  

Joy

Joy can be found on the floor of the library

playing a musical instrument from across the sea

where I had watched their dark skin melt into the dusk,

the shine of the rising moon glistening on the ball

rising high into the air, whether from a well placed kick,

a header, they rushed towards the sea to meet it while

he settled onto the cool tiles of the library floor,

only feeling their joy the way that babies do

through intuition not mind

 

They weren't there yesterday

 

they weren’t there yesterday,

when the sun was shining

the seedlings had finally emerged in the vegetable garden, small

clods of earth pushed aside, the oh so delicate

first leaves opening themselves, so innocently,

like wide-eyed babies

to the hellish, unseen night time voraciousness of the roly-poly,

those brown segmented crustaceans, monsters

their sharp teeth devouring that which was created with love

they weren’t there yesterday, having only arrived,

suitcases in hand on a night train, I am reminded that

sunshine can be followed by a devouring darkness.